with his hands and arms like a
beached whale. Malone padded over to him and dug him fiercely in the
ribs.

"Come on," he said. "Wake up, Tommy-boy."

Boyd's eyes did not open. In a voice as hollow as a zombie's, he said,
"My head hurts."

"Can't feel any worse than mine," Malone said cheerily. This, he
reflected, was not quite true. Considering everything it had been
through recently, his head felt remarkably like its old carefree self.
"You'll feel better once you're awake."

"No, I won't," Boyd said simply. He jammed his head under a pillow and
began to snore again. It was an awesome sound, like a man strangling
to death in chicken fat. Malone sighed and poked at random among the
bedclothes.

Boyd swore distantly, and Malone poked him again.

"The sun is up," Malone said, "and all the little pedestrians are
chirping. It is time to rise."

Boyd said, "Gah," and withdrew his head from the pillow. Gently, as if
he were afraid he were going to fall apart, he rose to a sitting
position. When he had arrived at it, he opened his eyes.

"Now," Malone said. "Isn't that better?"

Boyd closed his eyes again. "No," he said.

"Come on," Malone said. "We've got to be up and moving."

"I'm up," Boyd said. His eyes flickered open. "But I can't move," he
added. "We had quite a time last night."

"We?" Malone said.

"Me, and a couple of girls, and another guy. Just people I met." Boyd
started to stand up and thought better of it. "Just having a good
time, that's, all."

Malone thought of reading his partner a lecture on the Evils of Drink,
and decided against it. Boyd might remember it, and use it against him
sometime. Then he realized what had to be done. He went back into his
own room, dialed for room service, and ordered a couple of pots of
strong black coffee.

By the time a good deal of that was awash in Boyd's intestinal system,
he was almost capable of rational, connected conversation. He filled
himself to the eyebrows with aspirins and other remedies, and actually
succeeded in getting dressed. He seemed quite proud of this feat.

"Okay," Malone said. "Now we have to go downstairs."

"You mean outside?" Boyd said. "Into all that noise?" He winced.

"Bite the bullet," Malone said cheerfully. "Keep a stiff upper lip."

"Nonsense," Boyd said, hunting for his coat with a doleful air. "Have
you ever seen anybody with a loose upper lip?"

Malone, busy with his own coat, didn't bother with a reply. He managed